Victoria Lee says:
Despite their oh-so-flawed humanity,
I was blessed with parents
whose love
for me ran deep.
The evidence was old school:
Mom’s meals at 8, 12 and 6, and
for 18 years, the homemade clothes,
the ironing every Tuesday.
Dad’s hard work six days a week
till the day he died too early.
And from both of them, consistency.
I hated that sameness when I was young.
Their commitment was not
sweet to me.
Their endless conflict, I thought then,
was worse than anything I could imagine.
Strict construction guidance
was their currency: believe,
forgive, be good, save yourself
for marriage. I took the middle two.
Hugs were plentiful, as was their
pride when I learned new Bible verses
and brought home A’s from school.
Love was conditional and meant to be.
At three, Mom said
Daddy will make you
very sorry you talked
to me like that.
He did.
He used the thick leather
razor strap slung hard
against bare legs
and a paddle higher up.
Sometimes Mom made me cut my
own “switch” from a tree outside.
She hit me with those switches
when I talked back or
when I tore the new dress she’d made.
It was white with blue flowers
on the thin summer fabric.
They were both so proud
when amazing grace saved a wretch
like me. I was nine, and lived for their
approval; it came along with Jesus.
At 15, when I couldn’t believe
their way any more, they wept and worried.
The Bible’s a history book I told them–
not literally true. They wept and raged,
fearing their girl in eternal flames.
At seventeen when I said
yes I would go out with that boy,
dad hit me and knocked me down.
It wasn’t called abuse then.
I never got used to kind
parents who could turn mean
in a minute when I wandered into
a high security area.
I still recoil from sudden turns.
My anger is long gone.
I see them with different eyes
now that they’re gone.
Mother’s Day with no Mom to call,
Father’s Day with Dad long in his grave.
Daddy died before I could get there.
Once his blunt personality was gone,
I started feeling his love–
so strong, so pure.
I understand what a father’s love
means to a daughter. It forms you
and sustains you for a lifetime.
A man we’d call abusive now
can give that love. I know.
He had a tender heart.
Mom died with her hand in mine–my
great privilege, my heartbreak, my treasure.
She loved me after all, but couldn’t say it
till weeks before she went.
I understand now. It takes 50 years or more
to know they did their best, followed what was right
as they could understand it. They saw it all
with different eyes than mine.
Such is the human journey.
You can’t see your children’s future; not even in your dreams.
You can’t go backwards and know your parents’ truth–not
unless you surrender to loving them,
the sweet little girl and boy they were, and how all that followed
was so natural–maybe inevitable.
Despite their oh-so-flawed humanity,
I was blessed with parents
whose love
for me ran deep.
I hope my sons will one day
know and say the same
of me.
Blessings to you, dear visitor. You may post a response here, or email me at drvlee1234@aol.com.
